Emotions
by Flame Rainbow
Summary: Sherlock is left alone with his mind when John says something hurtful to him. Sherlock's mind is slowly killing his body because his heart is already dead. Can John repair their relationship and help his Sherlock come back.
1. Chapter 1

_He had always hid his emotions. So much he didn't even feel them anymore. Sociopath, he made himself one. Emotions hurt, out of love comes pain. Out of hope comes disappointment. But dammit sometimes he slipped. Sometimes words hurt. But only when john says them. None else can hurt him. _

_Perhaps he should have seen it coming. _

Sherlock was lounging on the sofa considering getting johns gun from where he tried to hide it. Really his underwear would not deter Sherlock from reaching in his draw and getting it. He checked the clock again and realised it would only be a while before John got home. He glanced towards the mess his experiment had made in the kitchen. A questionable grey substance was dripping from all the corners of the room. Sherlock was sure John would get angry but he couldn't bring himself to get up and clean it. He thought it was astoundingly boring.

Sherlock wasn't sure what people thought being bored was but he knew it was nothing like the boredom he himself felt. It was burnt at him straight to his soul, he could feel it running through his bones and it _hurt_. His brain just wouldn't stop speaking, though there was nothing in this room he hadn't deducted his brain still automatically did it. Over and Over and Over until it made him snap. He would go through his mind palace and his thoughts would skip from A to N without him knowing how he got there. It would go on till he couldn't even recognise his own thoughts and he only had four ways to stop it.

Cocaine, not the healthiest but it got the job done.

Suicide, Sherlock had tried this two times both times he obviously failed. He couldn't do that while John was still around because he knew he would be disappointed. Not that Sherlock should care.

John, sometimes John could help, he would sit down and do something he didn't expect him to and he would catalogue it in his mind palace and get lost in John. John Watson should not be interesting to Sherlock Holmes but for some reason he was. For some reason he could spend hours cataloguing how many different colours there were in John's hair.

Get lost completely in his mind palace; this had only occurred once in his life. Sherlock would completely shut down and he would get locked inside his mind. Mycroft had found him half starving to death and catatonic on his bed. He came out of it three weeks later by which he had to be fed through a tube.

Sherlock really hoped John came home soon because he might just resort to the first option. He knew John hadn't found his stash underneath a loose floorboard. Sherlock was absently scratching at his arm now and his mind was running too fast for even him to comprehend.

_There is faint smell of John in the air - Deodorant, Soap, Hospital, sweat, fresh laundry, and aftershave. Johns after shave, 1-3% aromatic compounds, Undertones of sandalwood for masculinity. Contains synthetic chemical calone and alcohol. Chemical composition for alcohol is CnH2n+1OH. Most common type of alcohol is ethanol found in alcoholic beverages, chemical composition is C2H5OH. John bought a new type of wine two days ago a buy one get on free offer because he is worried about the rent. Came home early the other day from a date and had three beers more than his typical two. Concentration of alcohol on his breath shows he had at least a glass of wine at the restaurant he took Sarah to. It was more expensive than he could afford because his relationship whit Sarah is not going well. John has been staying longer at work and comes home with more ink stains on his hand and bloodshot eyes. Sarah has not been feeling sympathetic and had been giving him extra paperwork. The chemical composition of paper will depends on the type or grade of paper. Typically most grades of paper consist of organic and inorganic material. Organic portion consisting of cellulose, hemi-cellulose, lignin and or various compound of lignin (Na-lignate etc.) may be 70 to 100%. Inorganic portion consisting of mainly filling and loading material such as calcium carbonate, clay, titanium oxide etc. may be 0 - 30% of paper. Most typically... SHUT UP._

Sherlock realised he had scratched two hard on his arm and three angry lines were slowly producing droplets of blood, before his brain could launch into a whole speech about the bloods properties and the experiments he had performed he heard Johns feet coming up the stairs. He had heavier footsteps than usual and he was taking 8.4 seconds longer than usual to walk up the stairs. There was a two second pause before he knocked on the door. He had a long stressful day and was carrying 3 bags of food from Tesco's.

John stepped in soaked to the bone with rain and was indeed carrying 3 Tesco's plastic bags. He turned to put the food away and noticed the grey matter covering almost every surface of the kitchen. John took a deep breath and tried to calm himself knowing he was a second away from exploding and punching the nearest living thing or inanimate object.

He turned and saw Sherlock wrapped up in his robe looking at John with interest. John took a very deep breath and forced himself to calm down.

"Sherlock, what the _hell.._ Happened in our kitchen" John was visibly shaking and trying not to lash out at Sherlock"

"Experiment, I was bored, there are no cases and I. AM. BORED" He didn't mean to be so irritable but his John had more than a hundred deductions to be made about him and Sherlock brain would not shut up. John's eyes widened and he pressed his lips into a thin line. His vision was going blurry from anger.

"Experiment, Sherlock, you can't just do that. Pay attention to other people feelings for once. Just act human, god Sherlock if you want a case you can take one that is on my website but no, they are all too boring and mundane for the great Sherlock Holmes"

Sherlock knew that John would calm down in a minute when he realised how silly he was being. He knew that he made a mess but he also knew that he could probably convince John to clean it anyway. So Sherlock just rolled his eyes and dismissed John with the wave of his hand.

"it's all fine John. Don't take your irritation out on me. Sarah's giving you extra paper work and you extremely tired from trying to catch up, she is still angry with you for leaving her on the last date. She still hasn't slept with you and you are getting increasingly frustrated. You are trying to impress her by using your more expensive after shave which was on sale for half price. Get along with your normal mundane human problems, oh and get me a cup of tea, I'm parched."

John was clenching and unclenching his fists and his breathing was getting increasingly heavy. He was livid at Sherlock and his face was turning an unflattering shade of red. He stepped closer to Sherlock who was now standing right in front of the sofa observing John with curiosity.

"My_ normal _human problems Sherlock. I shouldn't have to deal with all of this. Sometimes I wish I had never moved in with you. You need to learn to keep your deductions to yourself and NO I will definitely not get you a cup of tea you dick. You need to learn to consider other people and not act like a complete twat all the time. What happens between Sarah and me is none of your business. This is my flat as well and I shouldn't have to come home and not even be able to put away the shopping that_ I _bought for _you_. I may be a bit far from normal but at least I'm human, sometimes I wonder if you are even… God Sherlock for god's sake for one day just don't act like a freak" John was screaming in Sherlock's face and had poked Sherlock in the chest so hard that he had fell back onto the sofa.

Something in Sherlock broke when John called him a freak. He thought he would be someone who would never call him that. He could deal with Anderson and Donovan, they were nothing to him. They were not his only friend. One of the only people he genuinely cared about. Sherlock didn't even know he had a heart and now he was feeling it shatter. He felt so pathetic because even though John had hurt him more than anyone ever had he still wanted John to stay. But he didn't.

John didn't see the agony in Sherlock's face.

He didn't see Sherlock's whole body shrink away into the sofa.

He didn't see the tears in his eyes.

John was already out of the door and down the stair leaving Sherlock alone with his mind. And Sherlock's mind was slowly killing his body because his heart was already dead.

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**A/N Please make me happy and leave a review in the nice little box below, he's HUNGRY. :)**


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock sat there feeling time pass, every second felt like a decade of burning and despair. He felt as though his soul was being ripped from his body, it felt as though John's fingers were ripping through his skin and taking whatever he pleased. John had carved his name onto Sherlock's biggest secret. He had scratched his name onto Sherlock's heart. Though his heart was grey and unused and was pushed into the shadows for so long it had still survived and was looking for a ray of hope, of light. That was John, his heart was full of such goodness that he even had some to spare for a lost cause. And now Sherlock was paying the price of hope, because every second that went on he could feel his heart and soul getting demolished.

He sat there being ripped apart; he wanted to scream in anguish. He wanted that scream so hard it tore his throat apart. He wanted to scream so loud that the blood vessels in his eyes burst. He wanted to scream and scream until he was just a corpse. An empty soulless corpse. He felt like he already was one.

Instead he sat curled up into a ball on the sofa, gently rocking. He would open his mouth to scream but nothing would come out. His fingernails dug painfully into his skin and he dragged them down again and again. Tears were on the edge of his vision but they did not fall. He took a deep breath to calm himself but instead let out a gut-wrenching blood curdling scream. It rippled through the air and shot through the walls. But he didn't stop screaming. He closed his eyes and the tears were falling. He thought about the fact that he had trusted John completely, He had shown him sides of himself he had never shown to anyone else. He honestly believed John would never intentionally hurt him.

He noticed hands on his arms trying to drag them from his face and he looked up to see Mrs Hudson's sweet old face swim into view. She looked very concerned and Sherlock wondered why. Then he wondered how he must look, hair a dishevelled mess from his hand clawing at his scalp, tears streaming down his face, red bleeding lines down his arms. She had love in her face and this just made Sherlock cry harder.

"Oh Sherlock dear, what happened. Shhh, it's alright" She stroked and ran her fingers through Sherlock's hair. Mrs Hudson had only seen Sherlock this bad twice, both times when he had been on morphine withdrawal. She knew that Sherlock hadn't taken anything; she knew she would recognise the signs. Mrs Hudson knew what was in his face now. She had seen it on a lot of young men and women; she had seen that face at funerals and sometimes from a person staring at a wedding. She had seen this face many times but never like this. Written all over Sherlock's face was heartbreak. He looked like he was going through torture and she knew that in his funny little brain he was.

She couldn't stand to see him like this but she knew him well enough to know he wouldn't speak to her. So she sat down on the sofa with him and pulled his head into her lap. She slowly continues stroking his head and whispering soothing words. Mrs Hudson felt his sobs slowly slow down and his breathing even out. She knew she could leave know and he would not even notice but she couldn't bring herself to leave his side. So she grabbed an old blanket from behind the sofa and wrapped it around Sherlock, still whispering soft soothing words.

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John walked angrily away from the flat. He was muttering angrily under his breath about Sherlock and experiments. He was walking down the path to his favourite pub when he stopped. Doctor John Watson didn't stop because he had forgotten his coat. John Watson didn't stop because he couldn't afford the pub. John stopped because he realized he had just shouted in his best friends face and called him a freak.

Absently he felt himself move towards a bench and sit down. He put his face in his hands and just felt empty. He was so shocked at himself that he couldn't comprehend what had happened; he couldn't believe he had just done that to Sherlock. He knew just how human Sherlock really is.

He put up all these brick walls around him and his heart. People don't even bother to try and get past that wall. But John knew that the wall wasn't made of brick, it was made of paper. Painted so perfectly that people believed it on sight and didn't even bother to try and get through it. Even Sherlock believes its brick. But John knows it only takes a small thing, like John and his words, to rip the whole wall down. He had set a match and know he would have to watch Sherlock burn.

He tried to replay the whole confrontation in his head and was shocked at what he didn't notice. He didn't think. John realised Sherlock was right, he really was a stupid idiot. How could he have not seen Sherlock was in pain? He had deliberately put Sherlock in pain because in that moment all John was really thinking about was how much he wanted to hurt Sherlock. And he had. That much was obvious from Sherlock's face. John knew he had to go home and see just how badly he had hurt Sherlock but he sat on the bench a while longer. He knew he was stalling but he just couldn't bring himself to go home. He watched some of the people walk past him, Sherlock could have told him all of their stories, where they had been, who they were sleeping with. He groaned and got up. Now he had to face the music.

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**A/N Hello readers, i hope you enjoyed this quick installment. I promise the next one will be longer. Please be nice to the lonely box below and drop off a review. I would like to know where you want me to go in the story. Thank you for reading :). **

**Flame Rainbow XXX**


	3. Chapter 3

__**A/N Sherlock's inner thoughts are represented like this **

_Blah Blah Blah_** or**

**_Blah Blah Blah_. **

**He generally has two inner voices. Thanks Hope you enjoy the update.**

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John walked up the stairs; they felt much longer than usual, like they wanted to increase the distance between him and Sherlock. He raised his hand to knock at the door then realized that it was his house and he could walk in as he pleased. He sighed and pushed open the door, then stopped in shock at what greeted him.

The house around him was in complete chaos, especially the sofa. It looked like somebody had jumped on it repeatedly then decided that everything around it must go. Books that used to be on the floor next to the sofa were 5 feet away. Case notes absolutely everywhere. Sherlock was lying across on the sofa asleep, his head resting on Mrs Hudson's lap. He looked an absolute mess though. His hair was wild, it honestly looked like he had just passed through a hurricane, and He had tear tracks on his cheeks and red scratches running up one arm. But even though he looked a mess he could tell for now Sherlock was calm, and at peace just resting his head on Mrs Hudson. Even though Sherlock looked like he had been asleep for quite some time Mrs Hudson was still whispering to him and stroking his hair and arms. He felt a strong pang of guilt, Sherlock was really a mess and John didn't even have the decency to come back and see if he was ok. He had left it to his landlady to take care of it.

He walked over and Mrs Hudson raised her head, she smiled at him and started to slide out from underneath Sherlock. "Oh, John. I was wondering when you would get home, Sherlock's gotten himself into a right state. Poor dear was screaming the whole street down; I don't know what gotten into him but take care of him. I have to leave tomorrow to go and visit my sister but I really don't want to leave him in this state."

She didn't look at John with any disappointment or malice so he knew Sherlock hadn't told her what had happened. For some reason that made John feel worse, he wanted someone to scream at him or punch him in the face. Maybe then he would get what he deserved and feel a bit better. John knew even that thought was selfish and scolded himself for it.

"Sure I'll try and take care of him Mrs Hudson, thanks for doing that while I was out." Mrs Hudson smiled at him then laid a kiss on Sherlock's forehead. "I will leave some food in my fridge, if you need anything just pop in. Oh and watch out for him, the last time I saw him in such a state it was those wretched drugs. Well dear, I will see you in a week or two." She patted Johns arm and left. John just stared at the sleeping Sherlock in shock. He looked so peaceful when he was sleeping, worlds away from how he looked when he was awake. Shame flooded through John when he once again spotted the scratches on Sherlock's arm. They were right below the crease in his arm and he knew that was where Sherlock used to shoot up. He took a deep breath and went to collect his medical bag.

When he got back he sat down next to Sherlock and worked on his arm. He cleaned, disinfected and bandaged it and managed not to wake Sherlock. He could see his old ugly track marks marring his arms. There were so many, he knew Sherlock was an addict but he had hardly ever seen so many on one person's arm. Absently he wondered if Sherlock had ever had any overdoses. John grabbed an old pillow, which he recognised as his Union Jack pillow and put it underneath Sherlock's head. He looked at Sherlock and brushed away his curls from his head. "I'm sorry Sherlock, I'm so…" He choked up "You are not a freak, you are human and a wonderful one at that and I'm just sorry. Ok. I didn't mean any of it." Just like Mrs Hudson John placed a kiss on his forehead and went to clean the mess in the kitchen.

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Sherlock woke up to the sound of the TV and deep snoring. He had a raging headache and was having trouble remembering what had happened. He realized he felt slightly strange, kind of hollow. He hoped he hadn't gone back to taking drugs, which would disappoint John. He stretched all of his muscles and realized that he had not taken any drugs but there was a bandage in his arm that stung quite a bit. He dropped back down to the sofa and closed his eyes.

He bolted up right when he remembered. He glanced down at the bandaged arm, it was definitely Johns work. He didn't understand why John would take care of him after tearing him to shreds. Sherlock realised he wasn't really feeling sad, just empty. Like John had pushed him into an infinite dark hole and he was just waiting to hit the ground. He figured he might as well relish in the numbness while it lasted. Sherlock really did feel pathetic, it was like his Uni days when he was high every day and didn't give a damn about anything. It would be nice to have some morphine right now Sherlock thought. But he still didn't want to disappoint John and that confused him. How could one simple man confuse Sherlock Holmes so completely?

His gaze wondered to John and his numbness faded away completely. Sherlock Holmes has had many injuries over the year. He has been stabbed, strangled, beaten within an inch of his life and some more creative injuries. None of them caused as much pain as he felt now. He shrunk away from John. He knew John wouldn't ever do too much harm to him physically, with the exception of the occasional punch, but he was scared of him nonetheless. John Watson was one of the very few people who could hurt him emotionally and Sherlock tried very hard to keep that list as short as possible.

He sighed and got up off the sofa, he just wanted to be on his own, though he did appreciate Mrs Hudson greatly. Somehow she always knew what to do. She was truly more like a mother to him than a landlady. He did not deserve her in the slightest but he did greatly value her.

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John could feel the presence of someone in the room. He could still feel the heat of a bullet and smell the blood, like he had just been in Afghanistan. He couldn't remember where he was but the army training was so engrained into his mind that he reacted as if it were an attacker. He jumped off of the surface he was lying on and went into a fighting stance. He glanced around the room then visibly relaxed when all he found was the clutter that was usual around in his home. Sherlock was standing next to the sofa, watching him with wide sad eyes. John knew instantly what he had done a couple of hours ago. The clock showed that it was the early hours of the morning. Sherlock's eyes looked empty, defeated and in pain and that made John slightly scared. He had seen Sherlock manic, bored, slightly sad and even on extremely rare occasions, happy. But he had never seen that look on his face, if John didn't know any better he would have said that Sherlock looked heartbroken, not just heartbroken but like he didn't even want a heart at all. Sherlock Holmes looked like he had given up and that terrified John.

"Sherlock" He uncertainly stepped towards him but stopped dead when Sherlock flinched. He was afraid, why was he afraid? Then in a heart wrenching understanding he realized it was because of him. Sherlock was afraid of him. He knew better than to think it was because of physical things but John knew Sherlock guarded his emotional side better than anything and if he thought John could compromise that he would slowly shrink away from him. And John Watson would be damned if he allowed that to happen.

"Sherlock, I'm so sorry. You know I didn't mean what I said before right? You are human; you are not a freak ok. I was just angry and frustrated and I decided to take it out on you, which was a horrible decision." John said all of this cautiously as if he thought if he spoke to loudly Sherlock might shatter. He wasn't quite sure if that was false.

_Lies, Lies, Lies. It's not true, none of it is true. He played you Sherlock; you fell right into his hands. You're an idiot, you're no better than Anderson, your stupid like the rest of them. He laughed behind your back. He laughed and called you a freak. You trusted him; you knew what would happen if you trusted anybody, we tried to stop it. Now you're just the freak and they will all laugh and laugh… __**Shut Up, Shut up.**_

Abruptly Sherlock stood to his full height, his back was ramrod straight and his eyes were as calculating as ever. He looked at john with no expression whatsoever; he looked at John as if he had no emotion. John could see something in his eyes as well, something frightening. It was as if his eyes where black holes, lifeless voids that no one dared enter on purpose because there was no telling what was on the other side but it didn't look pleasant. John was reminded of how Sherlock was when they first met. He was looking at John as if he was a stranger, and not a particularly pleasant one at that. Sherlock's face was colder than before though, it made John shiver and a sense of dread was creeping into him.

"Sherlock?" He asked tentatively. John knew there was something wrong, extremely wrong.

"No need to apologise_ John_" He said Johns name with such scorn that John took a step back, "You have the right to your opinions and such, although that doesn't mean your opinions are right. Well it's late and you should be in bed. Off you pop. I have some thinking to do."

_That's it, he can't hurt you if you hate him, and he can't hurt you if you don't care. __**But I do care, he's John, of course I care.**__ John just thinks you're the freak, he doesn't care. Why should you? He has been lying to you this entire time. Some consulting detective you are, you couldn't even notice his lies. __**He apologized he was just angry. I was being insufferable; he had the right to do that. It was probably long overdue.**__ You're going to be alone again Sherlock. All alone. __**All alone.**__ So lonely. __**I deserved it.**__ Go back to our old solutions. Pretend you don't care, it's so much easier__**. I'm Sherlock Holmes, I don't do easy.**__ Yes you do. When I comes to emotions you do._

John looked at Sherlock with such a confused expression it would have been comical if it weren't for the fact that something was obviously wrong. John opened his mouth to ask him a question but Sherlock cut him off, "Before you ask if I am alright, I am perfectly fine. Really John, do you have to be such an idiot. It's so disappointing. Now go to bed. And no I do not wish to talk, I would greatly appreciate it if you would go to your room" when John hesitated Sherlock spoke again "Now". The way Sherlock said it made John walk briskly to his room and shut the door. He put his head in his hands; this was so much worse than he had originally thought. John knew it was all his fault. He collapsed onto his bed and hoped that one day things would go right again.

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Sherlock's shoulders sagged as soon as John left the room. That had been much harder than he thought it would be. It was a good thing he had practised almost all of his life.

Suddenly Sherlock felt this overwhelming desire to go. To leave, not just 221B or Baker Street or even London. He wanted to die. He collapsed onto the sofa, it was slightly nostalgic, and this was exactly how his Uni days were. He glanced towards the fireplace. He knew where his cocaine was (underneath a loose floorboard) but he also knew where his morphine was. He would just have to stick his hand and search around until he found it. Sherlock was fighting but he felt as if he was being pulled by his demons. The monsters deep inside of him were dragging him towards the drug. He could almost hear it beckoning to him, it was telling him it could shut off his brain. That it could make the pain go away, and the worst part was he knew it would. What was it they always said? Once an addict always an addict. And Sherlock Holmes knew that all too well.

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**A/N Reviews to me are like tears to Moffat. I need them to survive. So does the little box below, help him out, he's quite friendly. :) **

**The next update will be a lot longer and there shall be a special guest. Hang in there people, it should come in one or two days.**

**Flame Rainbow XXX**


	4. Chapter 4

**I want to thank you guy's for the awesome reviews and follows on this, thank you so so much. I really honest to god cried when i saw i had actually gotten reviews for this story. I hadn't expected any body to read this much less enjoy it. So THANK YOU, CYBER HUGS AND COOKIES FOR YOU ALL. I hope you guys carry on enjoying and reviewing (really nice reviews by the way, i cried laughed and just smiled for a long time). Enjoy the newest chapter.**

**Flame Rainbow XXX**

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Sherlock sat on his bed, his morphine sat in front of him in its carefully crafted box. He wanted it, he would reach out his hand to grab it only to pull it back. He could feel the need coursing through his veins when it should be the drug. It should be shooting through him, warming his insides and trapping his thoughts. Sherlock was anything but stupid; he knew he would end up taking the drug at some point in time. His thoughts were just becoming too much. He felt as though inside he was screaming in agony, bloody tears running down his pale face while tried to scratch his eyes out. On the outside he was collected, apathetic.

John had made him realise there was nothing waiting for him. There was no dawn for him, it would always be darkness. He would always be stuck in the darkness. He thought that John was helping; somewhere inside of him he knew that it was always a lie. That John would always leave and he would always be alone. It was his sick destiny and John had only made him realise that he didn't want it. He thought he was fine before John. He wasn't lonely, he was just alone. Then John came and showed him life and the light only to push him back into the darkness laughing all the while.

Sherlock curled in on himself and started rocking. Back and forth, Back and forth. He found the repetitive motion soothing. He was getting lost in it. He needed organisation, he need boxes and labels and the straightest lines. He needed that needle. He needed to trap his thoughts somewhere. He needed his thoughts in a labelled box. That only ever happened with drugs; otherwise he never knew where his thoughts would go. His head was a frightening place, there was little light and the light that was there was tainted into a sickly yellow glow that made him want to run back to the darkness. The darkness in his head was familiar, safe. There was only one way the darkness went and that was down and down.

He knew there were monsters inside him. He had known it for a long time; he felt them inside him, dark terrifying creatures that lurked within him. They tore at his brain and lived in his soul. But the Creatures were him and he was the creatures. He had created them and they had morphed beyond his control.

He knew there was poison inside of him; it ran through his veins and held on to his flesh. It had planted itself into his bones and consumed him. There was no warning when the poison decided to damage him. Unlike the creatures, Sherlock had not created the poison. The poison was everything. The poison was fists and blood and death. The poison was words. Foul words that stopped his breath and crumbled his heart. Freak, worthless, broken, not human, useless, meaningless, go to hell, you don't belong here. BURN. And he was burning, his soul was scorching in all-consuming flames and it _hurt._ He knew the poison belonged in him, the creatures fed on it. Sherlock knew what the poison was, and it was him. He was the poison.

Sherlock had hoped something could heal him and that's when Doctor John Watson came into his life. _What do doctors do with poison? __**They heal it.**__ Stupid, stupid, you are an idiot._ _That's not what doctors do to poison._ John Watson built him a home. _John Watson destroyed it. __**No he didn't.**_ John Watson had comforted him and kept him safe. John Watson destroyed all of it. _**No, John can help, he can help me. He's a doctor, he can heal me. **__Don't be so stupid, we are Sherlock Holmes. You know what he's going to do. __**John Watson is our HOME**__. John Watson burnt it down. Big bad wolf. __**John is good, were the bad ones. **__Yes we are. What do doctors do with poison. __**They get rid of it.**__ No, they obliterate it. They burn it._

John soaked him in Kerosene and lit the match. Sherlock Holmes was burning.

Sherlock knew all of this yet he still didn't want to betray John. He had told John he wouldn't go back to the drugs, he had promised. He still had no idea why, he had no idea why he even cared about John. His thoughts were buzzing, louder and louder. He couldn't hear the traffic outside or the wind pushing against the window. His Mind Palace was in chaos, utter chaos. Nothing made sense. That frustrated Sherlock beyond belief. He started rocking faster and faster, the bed was creaking underneath him. He looked to the morphine again and stopped. He forced his body to relax and took a deep breath. When he opened his eyes the needle was still there, he licked his lips and prepared. He realised that he had been on his bed for hours now and the sun was already up.

He put some alcohol on a cloth and swiped it over his arm. He saw his old track marks there. The beautiful, horrifying things. They reminded him of the ecstasy of the drug and the feeling of when that went away. He took a deep breath and began his work. He plunged the needle into the bottle of morphine; he didn't have to worry about filtering because he had taken it from Bart's. He put in a little more than usual because he knew his tolerance was high from past use. He slowly pulled the plunger, watching his dear liquid flow into the syringe. _I need it, I need it. _Sherlock felt himself shivering in anticipation; he could feel tingles running across his shoulders and through his lungs. Eagerness was flowing out through his every breath. His mind was whispering soothing words that ran through his veins, preparing him for the morphine. He added more and more and in some part of his head Sherlock knew it was too much but the other thoughts were smothering it, killing all of his nervousness. When he finished flicked the needle and watched the bubbles flow to the top gracefully, he pressed the plunger and expelled the bubbles that were at the top.

He wrapped the tourniquet around his arm and faced the needle upwards and pointed it towards his stone heart. He pressed the needle in and embraced the delicious sting of the needle slipping past his skin. He pulled back slightly and watched some blood appear in the barrel of the syringe. He quickly tore his tourniquet off and threw it onto the bed. He took in a small breath and gently pushed the plunger, feeling the morphine silently make it way through his bod. All of this was done quickly and with the efficiency of an addict. He swiftly placed his needle back into his box and swiped his arm again with the alcohol soaked cloth.

Sherlock slowly sunk down onto the bed and has a brief feeling of fear. He knows now that he has taken too much but he can't make himself care. The tiredness that was coursing through his veins has been replaced by his dear drug and it's masking it. Sherlock knows all he wants is the exhaustion to fade; he wants the feeling of his poison to disappear, so he chases it with another.

He takes a deep breath and holds it until the high hits. He knows it won't take very long and when it hits it's going to hit hard. And it does.

When it comes Sherlock releases the breath he was holding in a rush. It hits him like a ton of weightless invisibles bricks, it smothers him like a too thick blanket and it's almost too much for him. Is feet are kicking up and he can't breathe but the blanket is holding him down, choking him. He feels his thoughts berating him, trying to rip past through the artificially induced fog but then they slowly trickle away and his thoughts are sluggish and exaggerated. The drug is dragging him to the floor so he willingly follows it and places himself onto the cold luxurious wood. He feels it beneath his fingers and it's amazing to him. Sherlock Holmes is actually happy. Sherlock is also numb; he can't feel the cold of the floor even though he knows it's there. His mind has finally been forced to shut up and he is relishing in it. He knows he feels slightly sick and his breathing is far too shallow to be healthy but he can't hear his thoughts and it is bliss for him. He know that if someone hit him right now it wouldn't hurt so Sherlock sits up and lifts his shirt and scratches as hard as he can into his stomach. He leaves behind red welts to match his arms except the ones on his stomach are much deeper and the blood is flowing much more quickly. Sherlock sighs and falls back onto the floor. He feels very dreamy and sleepy and every movement he makes is slowed dramatically and he is in ECSTACY.

Another ton of bricks hit's Sherlock but this one is less pleasant. Suddenly he is drowning and the blanket isn't allowing him to breath. He can feel his own sweat drenching his shirt but it feels foreign to him. He can feel the fog taking him over and he can't breathe or think and he knows this is the end. So he takes the deepest breath he can and whispers two words.

"Goodbye John"

* * *

_*A few hours earlier*_

John flees to his room in confusion. He knows there is something completely wrong with Sherlock and it's terrifying him. He closes the door to his room and slides down onto his bed. He can't escape feeling that something is horribly wrong. He takes a deep breath and shakes his head, as he changes into his pyjamas he tries to listen for any sound that Sherlock is making. He heard him close the door to his own bedroom five minutes ago but he can hear anything now. **Sherlock did look really tired, maybe he's sleeping again. **Everything that had happened seemed strange to John but he knew he should leave Sherlock alone for a bit to sort out his emotions.

He regretted with every fibre of his being what he had said to Sherlock but he also knew he had not meant a word of it. He knew that this had cracked Sherlock's trust in John but he didn't want this to have completely severed it. He knew he had been one of the only people to get even remotely close to Sherlock and he didn't want to see their whole relationship shattered.

John was rolling around in bed for hours, every time it seemed as if he was going to fall asleep guilt hit him like a train and he had to change positions again. He had all this nervous energy in him and he decided to walk it off. John glanced at the clock and saw that it was early morning but not so early that there wouldn't be a few people around. He threw on some jeans and a jumper and walked out into the living room. He hadn't heard a sound from Sherlock in hours so he guessed that he was asleep. He grabbed an apple out of the kitchen and munched on it for a second. The silence was smothering him and he knew he had to get out. He grabbed his shoes and put them on, he threw a worried glance to Sherlock's rooms door and walked out, making sure to close the door quietly.

When John reached outside he took a deep breath of the London air, John knew it wasn't the cleanest but to him it smelled like home. He took a long walk around, enjoying the peace that was early morning. A few Joggers or people in suits went by him but compared to the morning traffic this was isolated. Before John knew it he was sitting on the same bench he had last night. He was tired and guilty and all he wanted to do was erase last night, have a shower and go to sleep. Another part of John wanted to break down in tear and smash his head against a brick wall. For the first time in John's life he had found someone who he was completely comfortable with. Of course John had had best friends and lovers and even people he thought he was going to spend the rest of his life with but he had always hidden a small part of himself away from them. With Sherlock he knew he didn't have to do that, he didn't have to hide and he hoped that it felt the same for Sherlock. He had known after he had stepped into this friendship that he would have to be careful with it. It was precious and all friendships were easily broken. He had seen far too many waste away because of a few cruel words.

John hung his head in his hands and felt tears well up in his eyes; he didn't know how he could have been so cruel. He knew he was caring in nature but he could also be stern when the time came but what he had done back there was outright cruelty. He had hurt another very human being intentionally and he had wanted to see the hurt in Sherlock's eyes in that second. John understood now Sherlock's contempt for most people, we were essentially all driven by human instinct and many instincts were to care and nurture there was a whole other side to things. He knew that human nature was to attack and kill when threatened, he knew that people could be possessive, jealous and mean and that it was kill or be killed and it didn't matter what way it was done. What he had done back there may have very well killed a part of Sherlock. John knew that when he looked into Sherlock's cold eyes and heard his name spoken with such scorn.

John knew he could sit here and cry and weep for hours on end or he could be the soldier he was trained to be and go home and sort things out. He got up from the bench, nodded once and soldiered on home. He would be brave and sort out things with Sherlock, but he had time for a coffee before.

* * *

_*Twenty minutes later*_

Lestrade ran his hands over his face and groaned. He knew he needed Sherlock for this case, he could see Anderson was completely and utterly stumped and the rest of the team didn't look much better. He felt tiredness run through him and groaned again, he hadn't had a proper night's sleep in more than two weeks. If putting up with Sherlock's arrogant ass meant that the job would get done then Lestrade would suck it up and go and get Sherlock.

He cricked his neck and walked put onto the main road. He stuck out his hand for a taxi and groaned yet again when he realised how much it would cost. On his way over he slowly mentally prepared himself for going to meet with Sherlock, he was difficult at the best of times and at the worse Greg didn't even want to think about it. He did notice that Sherlock was a hell of a lot easier to work with when John came with him. He really owed a lot to John for keeping Sherlock in check. John was really a good man. When he arrived at 221b he gave himself another mental shake and knocked on the door. When he received no answer he sighed and knocked again, after another two minutes of this swore softly, rolled his eyes and fished out his mobile. He phoned 221b two times, Sherlock's mobile four times and then he called 221b again. "Bollocks"

He fished through his contacts until he saw John Watson and ringed, when the John answered Lestrade did a little jumped then gathered himself together and sighed.

"Lestrade, why are you calling me so early?" Lestrade could hear a bit of chattering in the background and various plates being pushed around and forks scraping. He knew that John wasn't in the house and was probably in a café somewhere.

"I have a case for Sherlock and he isn't answering his blasted phone, please tell me he isn't running around London, this is a hard case and my boss is breathing down my neck"

"Sherlock should be at home, he was when I left a little while ago. Have you tried calling the house."

"I tried his phone and the house a million times and he isn't answering." Lestrade could almost see Johns frown from across the phone.

"There's a little space in between the bricks near the bottom of the door, it might take some searching but you'll find it, there's a key in there. Let yourself in. I'll be home in ten minutes but text me if he's not in there. Be careful with him though, he might not be in one of his best moves."

"Why?"

"Do you really want to know Greg?"

"I guess not, I don't have the time to deal with Sherlock's moods" He heard John pause over the phone and frowned. Lestrade wasn't kidding when he said he didn't have the time to deal with Sherlock's moods and if he and John were having a fight he shuddered to think how insufferable he would be at a crime scene.

"Oh and that's the last time you can use that key, Sherlock would have my head if he found out I told you where it was." There was a click from his phone and it took a second to realise John was hung up on him. He shrugged and opened the door with the newly acquired key. If he knew Sherlock at all he could guess that the when he found out that Lestrade had used the key he would insist that the locks get changed.

He jogged up the stairs and into the opened the door to 221b. The flat was eerily silent and he peered around the living room and the kitchen. There was no one here. He frowned and was about to go investigate around when he heard a shout and a bang come from Sherlock's room. Lestrade quickly grabbed his gun and walked silently towards the closed door, he suspected Sherlock had gotten into a fight with another criminal and was proceeding to almost get himself killed. Again.

Greg pushed open the door and prepared himself for a number of scenes but what met him made Lestrade stop in his tracks in shock. Sherlock was convulsing on the floor, his shirt was ridden up his belly and there were deep red bleeding scratches covering almost every inch of that patch of skin. One of Sherlock's sleeves had ridden up as well and there were bandages covering it but Greg didn't notice those, he only saw the one little bleeding hole in Sherlock forearm. He swivelled his head around and was met by what he knew was Sherlock's hidden drug kit. Greg's attention was put back on Sherlock when he suddenly stilled. For one second everything was deathly quiet and then Lestrade heard to very quiet whispered words come out of Sherlock's mouth. "Goodbye John"

Lestrade whirled into action and fell onto his knees beside Sherlock. He felt at his neck with one hand while the other was already calling John again. When he felt a very, very weak pulse he allowed himself to take a deep breath before blurring into action. He quickly moved Sherlock into the recovery position and reached for the house phone that had toppled to the ground across from Sherlock. He lifted his mobile to his ear and listened to an angry shouting John while he typed 999 into the house phone. John continued shouting at Lestrade while the house phone kept ringing. He brought his mobile to his ear again. "John, Shut up. I came into the house and god Sherlock was on the floor. He's overdosed again"

"What, he's overdosed. What. Again. What's going on Lestrade."

Lestrade reluctantly got up and crossed the room to the bed, when he saw an empty morphine bottle he swore and raised the house phone to his ear. "Hello, this is detective inspector Lestrade, I have a man here who has overdosed on morphine, I'm not sure how much but could you send an ambulance to 221b Baker Street immediately. " He heard the woman on the other end trying to get his attention but he knew he couldn't give an more information to her and he already knew how to handle the situation. He crossed back to Sherlock and rubbed at his back before raising his mobile only to hear John was screaming again and this time more insistently.

"John I know you're not stupid so shut up and listen. Sherlock has overdosed on morphine here in the flat; an ambulance is on its way. This is not my first time dealing with Sherlock like this and I know what to do. Just get back here as fast as you can." He heard John's breathless agreement and realised that John was running back.

Sherlock suddenly convulsed again, his back arching painfully then fell to the ground limp. Lestrade scrambled for Sherlock's pulsed and his heart dropped when he didn't find one.

"You bastard, don't do this to me again. Think about John. God, god. Sherlock wake up now. You are not doing this again. I am not letting you do this you utter bastard. Wake up." Lestrade was shaking Sherlock and shouting in his face. All he was met with was silence.

Sherlock's heart had stopped beating.

And Greg Lestrade would be damned if he didn't get it to start again.

* * *

**A/N Thanks for reading, i really hoped you enjoyed it. This actually took me a really long time (i wasn't really in the right mindset to write it) and filled around six word pages, but thank you for encouraging me.**

**The lonely lovely little review box is very happy and slightly less lonely, but he wants more friends. :( Please be nice, the little box below is very friendly :). Till the next time fellow Sherlockians. **

**Flame Rainbow XXX**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N Hello again you brilliant people. I apologize for the long wait, School was starting and i had to go shopping and get my uniform and actually get into the mindset to deal with the people (peasants/idiots/mini Anderson's) in my school. I have had a really hard couple of weeks and it makes me really happy to come home and see a follow or a review. **

**Thank you, Thank you, Thank you soooooo much for all the responses. I cried again (sorry, i get very emotional) I actually still cant believe people are actually reading this, like you're people, actually properly real people. It boggles me. But hey Here is a fresh baked chapter. Hope you enjoy!**

* * *

Sherlock could feel his mind palace vibrating, the walls were slowly disappearing and they were being replaced by the brightest white Sherlock could imagine. His files were scattered everywhere, some were hovering around him, slowly floating to the already cluttered ground. He watched the destruction around him in confusion, he couldn't remember anything and it was frightening him. He couldn't remember the last time he had been truly frightened. He saw vivid red door against one of the remaining walls but crumbling and ran towards it. He took a deep breath and opened the door. He stared in shock and bewilderment as he watched a young Mycroft smile down at him.

He frowns and looked down at his suddenly little hands and feet. He looked up again and saw a large beach and various faceless people running and splashing around. He looked back up at Mycroft and saw him take one of his hands and drag him down to the water. Sherlock tried to pull away but Sherlock was small and Mycroft easily dragged him down to the edge of the water. For some reason this seemed like a memory, the faceless people, the sense of déjà vu.

Then suddenly it hit him, hard. This was a memory, one of his few very happy childhood memories. Mycroft had taken him down to the beach while mummy and father were arguing. They spent the whole day out there and Mycroft had taught him how to swim. At first he had been afraid of the deep, dark depths of the water but Mycroft had dragged him there and laid a hand on his shoulder and confidently told him that nothing would happen, that his big brother would make sure of it. And Sherlock had learnt to swim in record time.

Just then Mycroft lays a hand on his shoulder and looked down at him but when Sherlock looked back at the water but the ocean seems to have drained away, he turned around to ask Mycroft what was happening but he wasn't there anymore. He stands up straighter in confusion and watches as the sand fuses together to make a wooden floor, when he looks up again he is surrounded by fancy furniture and intricate wallpaper. He realises suddenly that he is in his childhood home.

He looks up and gazes into the deep grey eyes of his father. He's sees disappointment and hatred laying in them, his father shakes his head once before walking out of the house. He hears his mother's cries from across the room and he unexpectedly feels something cold and dark in his chest, he can feel his breathing quickening. He looks down but there's nothing wrong with his body. He thoughts are everywhere, he can feel them clogging up his throat and ripping the air from around him. He sinks to the ground whilst desperately trying to suck in air.

When he hits the ground he feels wetness around his eyes, he stops in shock and then realises that he is crying. He still can't breathe and the tears are doing nothing for his vision, he can see blurry shapes around him and Mycroft is there calm and composed as always. He knows somewhere in the back of his head that this is a memory and that he is not in fact having a panic attack but that doesn't stop him from losing control.

He opens his eyes and sees Mycroft morphing and becoming older. His tears seem to dry on his face and disappear into nothing. Mycroft's mouth is open and he seems to be shouting something that Sherlock cannot distinguish. Sherlock is dimly aware of aches around his body and a cast on his arm. He looks around him and sees his old room, spotless and neat exactly the opposite of his flat with… Sherlock's mind draws a blank; he knows he shares a flat with someone. He can remember tea and jumpers and smiles but no name. There's a mirror opposite him and he gazes into it and sees his teenage self. He has a nasty looking dark bruise in his eye and his cheekbone, his arm is in a cast and he can tell from the aches that there are a lot more marks around his body. He remembers this memory vividly; it was his first real case. It did not end particularly well, Sherlock had been given the case by a distraught girl whose various family members were disappearing. It had led Sherlock to an extremely violent gang who proceeded to try and kill him. Mycroft had come with a few of his university 'friends' and together they had gotten Sherlock to the hospital. When Mycroft and Sherlock got home the older brother had started shouting (something that happens very rarely) at Sherlock. He had just stood there and taken it.

* * *

Screaming Mycroft is morphing into an even older Mycroft but this one is out of focus. Sherlock realises he is on the floor and his whole body was burning white hot. He feels ill and weightless and like he can't get a grip on who he really is. His brain is getting fuzzy but through this haze he can see panic in Mycroft's face and that frightens him. Sherlock could count on one hand the amount of times he has seen Mycroft lose his cool.

Sherlock starts to panic and feels his body convulsing. He shuts his eyes and when he opens them again Mycroft has changed into Lestrade and his body is no longer convulsing, he is not panicking. He can feel himself draining away but he relishes in it and he finds it beautiful because it is finally peaceful in his head.

* * *

He starts to drift and then there is almost silence. He can hear the wind and cars. He opens his eyes and sees Mycroft and Lestrade staring at him from across the room. He is still and his limbs feel tired and heavy. He can feel gnawing hunger in his stomach, a painful emptiness inside him. The scene melts away until he is lying on a hospital bed with a tube in his arm. Mycroft is standing across the room with his ever present umbrella, staring down at him in worry and disappointment. This memory is tinged in grey. It is boring. It is cold and dark and extremely uninviting. Then suddenly in a burst of movement he is running through the streets of London and going on cases for the yard and meeting Donovan and Anderson. He is relapsing and stopping drugs. He is smoking and there are nicotine patches. The boredom is less consuming now but it is still there nestled comfortably in his soul then an explosion happens and suddenly he remembers.

John Watson.

Jumpers and tea.

Cheap soap.

Tesco bags and arguments with the chip and pin machine.

Mrs Hudson.

Smiles and laughs and…

Happiness.

His whole world is bright and a kaleidoscopic of colours fills him and chases away the grey he has settled in. It is new and slightly scary but he feels ecstatic and the boredom is still there but it is buried deep and hardly ever shows its ugly face.

There is John and Sherlock and Sherlock and John and everything is nice and comfortable and Sherlock is finally happy.

* * *

A wave of pain hits Sherlock and his mind starts again and it won't stop and is speaking and shouting and screaming and Sherlock is screaming back. But it keeps on screaming but now it's whispering but it won't SHUT UP. It is hurting him, it is grabbing the darkness from his soul and draping it over him like a blanket and he dying but he is so alive and living hurts. He didn't know he had a heart so he wonders why it is hurting him and why it is turning to stone. The thoughts are whispering to him now, they are laughing while they slowly pull him apart. They are cackling and screeching and Sherlock can't cover his ears. They are all-consuming and. It. Hurts.

Then nothing. Blankness.

There is nobody. He is nobody.

A heart is an organ.

A mind is nothing.

He is nobody surrounded by nothing.

Then a voice breaks through the nothingness; A very familiar comforting voice that reminds him of bad coffee and case files.

"You utter bastard. Wake up!"

* * *

**A/N Hope you enjoyed it, i had really bad writers block and i know this chapter doesn't really resolve anything but i just wanted to keep you guys hanging on. I am so sorry this is quite a short chapter but now that there is some structure (school) in my life i can really get down to writing properly and i know that a lot of things are going to be sorted out next chapter. (I will try and make it extra long for you guys, extra extra long.)**

**I just want to say THANK YOU again for the absolutely lovely reviews, please leave more it just makes me smile and feel a bit better. Please leave more ! :) o_O I am sorry if the updates take long but there are a lot of bad things going on right now that i have to sort out but i hope you will hang in there. Pwease *puppy dog eyes*. Laterz.**

**The little box below still wants some more nice friends to drop some reviews in :). He says hi and thank you to all his new friends.**

**Farewell and till the next time.**

**Flame Rainbow XXX**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N Hello again my beautifuls (no really). Here is a brand new chapter for your pleasure. This actually took up seven word pages. (I AM NOT USED TO THAT AMOUNT OF WRITING ARGGGG) But again THANK YOU so much you amazing, brilliant wonderful REAL people. **

**I had a day off of school today so i spent the whole day trying to write this. It was not easy, writers block plus seven very long pieces of homework kept stopping me but i got through it. I have the whole weekend free now so i will try and get a head start on the next chapter. I want to say thank you again for the response i would really love it if you reviewed. **

**But enough of my pointless boring babbling, Here is a new chapter of Emotions! I really hope you enjoy this.**

* * *

Everything is passing by in flashes.

John is running, his feet blurring as he rushes towards his home, to Sherlock.

Lestrade is shouting, his hands trying desperately to get Sherlock's heart beating.

Sherlock is dying; his mind is a blur of memories. Then he hears distant shouting.

* * *

John reaches the front door to 221 Baker Street and fumbles for his key. His heart feels as though it's trying to escape from his chest and his brain is pounding inside his head. He starts panicking when he can't find his key. When he finally finds it after checking the same pocket three times he shoves it into the door, in the back of his head he realises his hands aren't shaking. When the door flies open he can hear Lestrade cursing from above, he pushes himself and practically flies up the steps that lead him to 221b. The door is already wide open and when he arrives at Sherlock's door his heart shatters.

He has seen a lot of things in his time. He has seen people getting blown to shreds and shot. He has seen Sherlock himself hurt countless times but none of that prepared him for the site of his best friend sprawled lifelessly across the floor while Lestrade tries to push the life back into him. The rest of the room blurs out and all he can see is Lestrade and Sherlock and John realises that this is the moment that defines his future. This is the moment that Sherlock either lives or dies.

John takes a deep breath and prepares himself for the next few minutes. Just as he's letting out a breath he sees Sherlock fingers twitch. Then he sees Sherlock shudder. John sees a bit of life burst into him as Sherlock whole body starts twitching.

* * *

Sherlock is sucking in breaths and his chest feels like it's on fire. His whole body feels like it's on fire, there is an inferno in his veins and he tries to throw off the weight on his body. His limbs feel heavy and he swears he can feel the gravity pulling him down, like it's trying to take him through the floor boards. He can hear a buzzing and whining in his ears and it gets louder and louder.

John watches as Lestrade's tense body sags and hears him breathe out "Thank god. Jesus. Jesus". John switches into doctor mode right there; he knows Sherlock isn't out of the woods just yet.

"Lestrade help me get him into the recovery position" Lestrade lifts his suddenly heavy body off of Sherlock and helps John carefully push Sherlock onto his side. Sherlock is still twitching and his eyes are shut tight. John ignores the scratches he can see littering Sherlock's skin and feels around for Sherlock's pulse.

He can hear the sirens in the distance and he lets himself have a little hope that Sherlock will be okay. He only allows himself a little and he knows even if Sherlock is fine after all this that this scene will haunt his nightmares for years to come. John can feel some of his self-hatred churning in his stomach but he stubbornly pushes it down. He knows that won't help his best friend get better.

He can hear the paramedics coming up the stairs; can hear their footsteps running into the house. He can hear Lestrade shouting to the paramedics who are undoubtedly rushing straight through the open door.

"In here, In here" John feels like everything around him is a dream and that slowly he will wake up in his bed shouting and sweating. He sees the paramedics run into the room and pushes his back right up against the wall. John knows that he should leave the paramedics to their job. He hears Lestrade speaking quickly to them.

"He took a vial of this morphine, neither of us is sure when but it must not have been that long ago. If I had to guess it was probably around an hour ago"

One of the paramedics, a short brown haired man, starts questioning Lestrade while he straps Sherlock onto a stretcher, "Does he have a history of substance abuse?".

"Yes, from what I can remember cocaine and heroin. I can't remember him ever mentioning morphine. He's overdosed twice before."

"Has he got any mental health problems and does he take any pills?"

Lestrade gets up from the floor and runs a palm over his face before answering. "From what his brother told me I think he had to take pills when he was younger but I don't think he does now. Bloody hell. His doctors never got a real diagnoses on him, I just. I don't have enough information to tell you exactly." In the time it took for Lestrade to say this, the paramedics had gotten Sherlock onto the stretcher and were making their way to the stairs.

John stared with wide eyes as Sherlock started shivering and muttering under his breath. He heard Lestrade swear from behind him and John suddenly remembered something.

"Greg, we need to tell Mycroft about this."

"Bugger, I know. He probably knows all about this already though. I think I have his emergency number but I can't exactly guarantee it will work. I haven't used it in over a year." John just nods and follows two steps behind the paramedics. John realises he had only come home less than five minutes ago and he had found out more about Sherlock's past than in the whole he's known the man. While they loaded Sherlock into the stretcher John started panicking. He couldn't let Sherlock out of his sight; he knew something bad could still happen. Lestrade saw John frozen scared and awkwardly patted his back. He awkwardly cleared his throat and waited until one the men looked at him.

"Can I ride with you, I'm a doctor?"

"Are you family?"

"Yes" John figured one little white lie wouldn't make a difference and he definitely couldn't ride in a cab while god knows what went on in the ambulance. To his left Lestrade cleared his throat and when John faces him smiled grimly.

"I'll take a cab mate, I'll see you in the hospital" John just nodded and hopped into the ambulance and hoped with all his might that nothing would go wrong in the short ride to the hospital.

* * *

Five minutes into the ride John started fidgeting; it was taking longer than he expected to reach the hospital. John checks his watch for the first time and realises its rush hour. He swears repeatedly in his head. He looks at Sherlock's blank face, the shivering hasn't stopped and it almost seems as though he's vibrating. His face is paler than he's ever seen it and his cheek bones look as sharp as glass.

John thinks back to the past few days and realises that he hadn't seen Sherlock actually leave the house, or sleep, or eat. Sherlock had been ignoring him for a whole week and when he did speak to him it was only to insult John. This time John swears out loud. He wonders how he could have possibly missed his best friend slipping further and further away from him. He had become so irritated he had just said the most hateful thing he could think of and caused Sherlock to do this. He can feel tears springing to his eyes as he watches his friend increase his shaking.

John reaches out and takes Sherlock's hand and strokes across the knuckles. "Sherlock, I'm so sorry. You're my best friend and I wish I could take it all back. Just, please. Don't leave me, don't leave any of us. We need you. I shouldn't have said any of that to you, I was so wrong. You are the best thing that's ever happened to me. You are not a freak, you are human, and you are a good man. Sure you can be a dick sometimes but that's just you Sherlock. I'm sorry, just get better. Don't leave. Don't leave me."

John genuinely doesn't know what he would do if Sherlock wasn't with him. Everything John said was the truth, and he really was very sorry. He had tears in his eyes but he stubbornly kept them there. He would not cry now.

Just then Sherlock opened his eyes and stared straight at John. The other paramedics didn't notice, they were too busy trying to figure out the quickest route. Sherlock's eyes were stormy, impossibly piercing even though his body was weak. Then Sherlock opened his mouth and uttered four words that not only broke John's heart but shattered it.

"I want to go"

* * *

John stopped breathing. He sat there or what felt like eternity staring into Sherlock's eyes. Those unbearably sad eyes. John realised that this was Sherlock with his guards down; the drug was probably still ripping its way through his body. It was leaving Sherlock defenceless. Sherlock smiled the saddest smile on earth as one tear dropped from his eye, shuddered once, and then fell still.

John felt his whole world stop and stutter, and then he could hear the nothing. He couldn't hear Sherlock's heartbeat. His best friend's heart had stopped. He watched as the paramedics blurred into actions, John knew they were qualified for this and that this was their job but he had to force himself to sit down and not slip into full doctor mode.

Sherlock's whole body was limp and lifeless.

"He's arresting, we need to defibrillate. Charging to..."

John watched as electricity surged through his friend's body before it fell lifeless again. John didn't usually pray to god, he didn't normally pray to anything but right now as he watched his _friend's _body turn paler he prayed to any and all god that would listen. He repeated the same thing over and over again.

_Please, just let him live. I'll give anything, just let him live. Please, he's my friend. Please give me a miracle, anything. Please, just let him live. I'll give anything, just let him live. Please, he's my friend. Please give me a miracle, anything._

The tears finally escaped from John's eyes as he prayed. He kept his blurring gaze on Sherlock's face when he suddenly sucked in a huge ragged breath and John's head fell into his hands in relief.

"He's stabilising, what's the ETA?"

"Only two minutes."

"Good, hey mate you okay? Mate?"

John realised the voice was talking to him and raised his head; he was met with the brown-haired man's face. He nodded his head weakly and swallowed.

"Alright, you sure?" John just nodded weakly again, It was clear that he man didn't believe him, "Do you know if his heart stopped before we came"

John thought back to when he saw Lestrade resuscitating Sherlock, the visuals played in front of his eyes and a strangled noise escaped him. "I, I think so. I mean yes, yes" The paramedic smiled thinly in sympathy and turned back to checking over Sherlock.

Absently John noted that his heart was beating rather fast and his breathing was coming in quick gasps. He forced himself to breath slowly and deeply, eyes still glued to Sherlock.

* * *

When the ambulance stopped less than a minute later John stayed seated and watched as they eased Sherlock through the entrance. He followed blindly and listened as they explained Sherlock's condition. When a nurse told him he couldn't go in with Sherlock he just nodded and walked to the waiting seats dazedly.

He was still sitting there when Lestrade rushed in. He let out a shaky breath that sounded suspiciously like a sob and put his face in his hands again. He was suddenly aware of just how tired he was. He felt as though a gust of wind could push him to the ground and he would happily stay there.

Lestrade saw John hunched on a waiting chair and stopped his questioning of the nurse. He walked towards him and collapsed onto one of the extremely uncomfortable metal seats. He shifted a bit before hesitantly placing a gentle hand on Johns back. He slowly lifted his head and looked up at Lestrade. He purposely didn't mention that he could tell that John had obviously been crying and just asked what happened.

"His heart," Johns voice broke and he swallowed dryly before starting again, "His umm, heart stopped when we were in the ambulance. I mean, god Greg, I thought I lost him there for a minute." A stinging pain was working its way through John's chest, he coughed to try and get rid of it but it just stayed and grew. In some part of his brain he acknowledged that it was probably the guilt showing its face but John just rubbed his chest through his Jumper.

"Yeah, well from what I hear he's not exactly out of the woods yet. God, I thought he was over this. Me and Mycroft spent so much time, that bastard. What happened mate? I really don't want to think that he got _that _bored." John was really starting to wonder what had happened in Sherlock's past and how big a part Lestrade played in it. He could still feel the heat of the guilt growing stronger.

"I'm sorry. I really didn't know what to look for. I didn't even know about all of that… stuff before today. I mean if I saw it, I wouldn't have… God. Why didn't anyone tell me about this before?"

"To be honest, we actually thought he would've told you. That was a bit stupid of us, it is Sherlock." Lestrade looked down at the floor and shook his head. He ran two hands down his face and yawned.

"Oh god, Oh god. I mean, this is actually happening. This is Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes. And he…" John couldn't finish that sentence, just trying to say it was causing bile to build and he swallowed harshly before carrying on. "Do you think he done it on purpose, do you think he actually meant to…" John sucked in a quick breath to stop the guilt overwhelming him. If Sherlock had done it on purpose with the intention of death, John didn't really know what he was going to do with himself.

"I really don't know. It wasn't like the last time." Johns eyes widened when he heard the end of that sentence.

"The last time. Jesus, Jesus. So nobody thought to tell me that my Sherlock tried to... Didn't anybody think this might be important information?" John was really trying to reign in his anger. He really didn't understand how Mycroft of all people hadn't told him some of this.

"To be honest I haven't really thought about it in a while. You're really good for him John, I mean just a couple of years ago he was… really destructive. Anybody could've seen that from just one look at his face. He was literally skin and bones, it was disturbing. The amount of times I had to drag him back to his flat after someone found him in some alleyway. You would've thought that git would appreciate it. What I don't understand is why it happened now."

"I think it was me" John said this so quietly that Lestrade struggled to hear it.

"What?"

"I mean me and Sherlock we were arguing and I just lost it. I didn't realise, he was in a bad mood and he was just saying things I didn't want to hear. I didn't mean it, I was just pissed off and Sherlock was being annoying and he's right. I don't think. God I'm an idiot." John said all of this in a rush and sucked in a big breath. Lestrade leaned back slightly from John and stared right into his eyes.

"John, what did you say?" Lestrade this harshly and if they were in any other situation John would've remarked on the fact that Lestrade sounded like he was Sherlock's father.

"I just… I… I said I didn't even know if he was human and I. I called him … a freak."

Lestrade stood up and slowly ran one hand over his face and through his hair a few times. He looked like he was controlling his breathing but little hitches still came through. When he looked at John it seemed as if he was trying very hard not to glare. He started pacing back and forth all the while muttering under his breath. Suddenly, he stopped in front of John.

"Oh god. I… John. I can't, I'm just going to get a cup of coffee. Just, don't move."

* * *

John let out a deep sigh and sat back down on the chair even though he knew he would be more comfortable standing. He thought he deserved to be uncomfortable right now. He knew Sherlock was here because of him. The heat in his chest was growing even further now and he put his head between his knees to stop himself from hyperventilating. Any energy that he had left swiftly left his body and he sagged down even more. After about ten minutes of this he was feeling useless so he got up and tried to pry some information from the nurses.

After five minutes of unsuccessfully trying to gain some information about Sherlock's health Lestrade walked back in with two coffee cups in hand. John watched as he carefully placed them on the stained coffee table that stood in front of John.

In hindsight John probably should've expected what happened next but he was too tired and distracted to. Lestrade leaned back and punched John in the face. Hard. He went down like a rock.

John tried to blink away the dark spots clouding his vision and saw a male hand floating in front of his face. He took the offered hand and only when he was stood up straight he realised it was Lestrade with a very serious look on his face.

"I would say I'm sorry but I'm not and you really deserved that." Lestrade nodded once then lent down and offered John a coffee cup.

"If anything I was waiting for someone to do that." Really John was just appreciative that someone cared enough about Sherlock to sock a former soldier. John took a sip of the coffee and grimaced. He saw Lestrade take deep gulps of his and looked at him with slight awe. Lestrade noticed.

"You get used to horrible coffee after you've worked at the Yard for so long." John just nodded and looked down into his coffee cup in slight disgust. He saw Lestrade look at something over his shoulder, saw him nod slightly before looking back at John whispering "Good luck" and swiftly walking away.

* * *

John turned and saw Mycroft calmly walking towards him with his ever-present umbrella. John stood up straighter and swallowed. When he looked at Mycroft a bit closer he could see slight panic disguised in his eyes.

"John, how is my little brother"

John had the feeling to reply sarcastically before he realised that this was Sherlock's family and contrary to what both the brothers might say they cared very deeply of each other.

"I don't know. They haven't told me anything since I came in here."

"What happened?" John started explaining from the very beginning how they had come to this. He didn't skip the argument but when he saw Mycroft's eyes harden he looked down at his shoes like a school boy being scolded. When he looked back up he could see some anger in his eyes and saw the hand clutching the umbrella tightening almost imperceptibly. Before he met Sherlock he probably wouldn't have noticed these things but having to deal with a Holmes brother had taught him a few tricks.

"I assume you want to punch me now or have me shipped off to some unknown desert or something".

"Oh believe me John that bruise forming on your face would have been from me but it seems as if Gregory beat me to it. I think I owe the detective inspector." Mycroft shot John a tight lipped completely menacing smile.

John breath stuttered slightly before he cleared his throat and looked Mycroft dead in the eye.

"I want to move out of Baker Street"

* * *

**A/N I have never In my whole existence written this many cliff hangers. Sorry! (I'm not sorry) **

**You guys, i have absolutely no idea about how ambulances or hospitals handle overdoses, i could ask my friends but that sounds slightly insensitive. :( No ambulance has ever come for me if i over dose. But anyways... QUESTION TIME. X_X**

**How long do you guys want this fic to go on for? I promise i wont drag it on but it could end in 2 chapters or like five. It is your decision. Drop a review in or a PM and tell me. (You can even tell me some ideas for the ending.) WARNING-Major angst next chapter.**

**Please keep leaving reviews *vastly improved puppy eyes* i really do appreciate every single one. I also appreciate every reader who takes their actual time to read this (still haven't gotten over the fact that your real people). :)**

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